


Social Lubricant

by MiaCooper



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: A first officer's work is never done, Caffeine Addiction, Diplomacy Fail, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Maybe a dab of smut, Prompt Fic, Sex Hair, picture prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: Never come between a captain and her coffee.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts).



> So this time, Helen and I decided to write a fic each to the same prompt/sabotages. I couldn’t decide whether to go funny or angsty so I flipped a coin. Helen is taking the opposite option.
> 
> Prompt: [This picture](https://flic.kr/p/WbFAwL)  
> Sabotage 1: story must contain a diplomacy scene where J and C are not on the same page (your choice as to why)  
> Sabotage 2: one of them gets hurt  
> Bonus: somehow, coffee causes drama

* * *

_The third day, 1200 hours_  
  
“I can’t let you do it, Kathryn.”  
  
He’s standing there blocking the Sickbay exit, all balled-up fists and soulful dark eyes, and I take a moment just to gaze at him. It’s a small pleasure; one of the few I allow myself, and then only rarely.  
  
Nonetheless, this is not his call to make, so I level him with my dourest stare. “I appreciate your concern, Chakotay, but I’ve made my decision.”  
  
“Kathryn, please. Think about this.” He strides over, takes my hands in his. Those dark-chocolate eyes lock onto mine, beseeching. It’s like he knows precisely how to wear me down, to batter at the defences I’ve shored up over the years.  
  
But then, of course he knows. He’s breached them on more than one occasion, after all.  
  
Not this time, though.  
  
“I have thought about it, Chakotay. The price is too high.”  
  
He lets go of my hands to pace, fingers raking through his hair so that it ruffles over his forehead.  
  
Oh no, don’t do that. He knows I can’t resist the Sex Hair. No, no …  
  
Too late. He’s in front of me again, and my hands are on his chest. Bad hands. How did they get there?  
  
“Kathryn…”  
  
“It’s going to be fine,” I soothe, my voice low and husky, just the way he likes it. I see it in the slight shiver that ripples through him, the way his breathing goes shallow. “Don’t worry so much, Chakotay.”  
  
He glances at the floor, back up at my face. “What if you get hurt?”  
  
“Then she’ll have the best doctor in the quadrant to patch her up,” interrupts the EMH, swinging out of his office.  
  
We move apart guiltily.  
  
“Although, Captain,” he continues, pretending to be blithely unaware of the subtext pulsing between us, “I must reiterate that my sympathies are with the Commander. I’ve seen the replays Mr Paris was watching on his padd – when he was supposed to be cataloguing cell samples, mind you – and while the player-to-player contact in Sopho does appear to be minimal, there is a risk of physical injury. Though not as high as if you practiced, say, _boxing_.”  
  
The scorn in his voice could wither plants. Chakotay opens his mouth to object, and I forestall him with a raised hand.  
  
“The elixir, Doctor?” I ask pointedly.  
  
“Ah, yes. The elixir.” The EMH rolls his eyes. “Remind me why injecting yourself with an alien stimulant is a necessary prerequisite to competing in Sopho?”  
  
“Because it’s part of the rules,” I snap, “and you are treading on my last nerve, Doctor. The hypospray. _Now_.”  
  
I tilt my head to the side and the Doctor presses the hypo to my neck, grumbling under his simulated breath. As the alien substance is released into my system I feel my heart pick up speed, my skin prickle with goosebumps, my breath coming faster. Energy races through my nerves and it’s all I can do not to bounce on my toes.  
  
I blink rapidly, shake my head to clear it, and turn back to Chakotay. He’s running his hand through his hair again, his adorable face worried. It’s all I can do not to reach out and smooth back his hair, kiss the worry away.  
  
“Captain,” he murmurs, “I wish you’d reconsider.”  
  
But it’s clear he’s given up the fight, so I contain myself to patting him solicitously on the shoulder and breeze past him. “Take care of my ship, Commander,” I call over my shoulder as I quickstep my way out of Sickbay.  
  
I’m ready.

* * *

  
  
_The first day, 1500 hours_  
  
Chakotay stands in his customary position at my left shoulder, close enough that I can feel the shifting warmth of his chest against my back, and sometimes, the soft brush of his breath on my hair. As always, it’s both a comfort and a provocation. But as always, I give no sign of it.  
  
I’ve already sized up Prefect Dipi and classified him as a member of Delta Quadrant Diplomatic Category Epsilon: a snake-oil salesman with a silver tongue and an ulterior motive I haven’t yet pinpointed. He’s not as unctuous as Gathorel Labin of Sikaris, the first member of his category – he’s a little ditzier, a lot prettier, and his hands don’t wander quite as much – but he’s obvious enough that Chakotay assessed him as quickly as I did, and consequently hasn’t left my side since we transported down to Mandra II.  
  
As the Prefect drones on about productive trading partnerships and new friends who’ve travelled the stars, my mind starts to wander. I’ve heard this speech dozens of times in various forms across hundreds of light years. By the time he starts extolling the virtues of Mandra, I can feel my shoulders drooping. I’m preoccupied with mentally cataloguing the meagre supplies _Voyager_ has to trade, and I’m impatient to get down to it.  
  
Besides, I used Chakotay’s last replicator ration on yesterday morning’s coffee, and no matter how much I adore Neelix, his better-than-coffee substitute is … well, no substitute.  
  
I shift on my feet, my smile growing forced, and Chakotay – ever-sensitive to my moods and well aware I’m running caffeine-free – clears his throat. The Prefect, thankfully, winds down only a few minutes later, and bids us follow him into the conference chamber. An impeccably dressed, extremely handsome young man holds my chair and pours me a glass of something cold, refreshing, and … oh my God. It’s _caffeinated_.  
  
I start to appreciate the Mandrin a little more.  
  
However, therein follows a negotiation that’s every bit as lengthy, stately and irritatingly indecisive as I expected it to be, and culminates in Chakotay leaning towards me and murmuring a suggestion that we call it a night and continue our talks with the Mandrin tomorrow. Brilliantly, I decide to invite them to _Voyager_ for the day, making a mental note to palm them off on Tuvok and Neelix as soon as humanly possible.  
  
The Prefect accepts with alacrity, and I wonder if I might beg a sample of that caffeinated drink to take back with me, or if that would be pushing my luck… but it’s too late; Mr Well-Dressed and Handsome is already ushering us back to the transport site.  
  
Sigh. I guess I’ll be going coffee-free tomorrow morning. Again.  
  
By the time we get back to _Voyager_ , I’m simultaneously exhausted and wired. I could go to my ready room and knock over a few reports, or I could see if there’s a holodeck free so I can beat up a few Klingons, or I could –  
  
“Dinner, Captain?” Chakotay gives me his most irresistible smile as he extends a hand to help me down from the transporter pad.  
  
Ooh. Now that’s tempting. A home-cooked meal, a nice bottle of wine and Chakotay’s company. Knowing him, he’ll have noticed the tension I’m carrying in my shoulders, and he’ll offer to work it away with those magic hands…  
  
The problem is, I know where that’s likely to lead, especially in my current – read, extremely frustrated – frame of mind. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do that again, especially after last time.  
  
No. I’ll be strong.  
  
“Thank you, Commander,” I lay my hand on his arm to soften the sting, “but I think I’m just going to check in with the bridge and turn in early tonight.”  
  
He doesn’t miss a beat, I’ll give him that. “Of course, Captain. Enjoy your evening.”  
  
We walk to the turbolift together and he bids me good night as he steps off on his deck. I count myself lucky that there’s nobody there to notice me staring longingly at his retreating back.

 

* * *

  
  
A quick stop on the bridge turns into a lengthy conversation with Tuvok over security arrangements while our guests are on board, and then a trip to the mess hall to advise Neelix he’ll be wearing his ambassador’s hat tomorrow, after which he sweet-talks me into eating a meal. Then B’Elanna comms me wanting to talk about how desperately we need dilithium and gallicite and noranium and – I cut her off and head down to Engineering, resigning myself to a good hour’s worth of tirade.  
  
By the time I finally reach my quarters, all I want is a long soak in a scented bath, a nice satisfying orgasm and a solid eight hours of sleep, but I’ll settle for two out of three. Lucky for me, my favourite toy is waterproof, so I can multi-task.  
  
Except that it’s just not happening for me tonight. The water’s gone lukewarm by the time I finally give up and towel off. Sinking onto the bed, the best I can hope for is a reprieve from my usual insomnia, because waking at 0300 hours is barely acceptable even when I’m flush with coffee rations.  
  
Of course, just as I’m sliding into a lovely dream in which a certain handsome, tattooed first officer is kissing his way along my collarbone, I’m woken by the chirrup of my communicator. It’s Prefect Dipi, wanting to chat – at great length – about my list of supply needs.  
  
Glancing at the chrono and seeing that it’s 0245, all I can think about is coffee.

* * *

  
  
_The fourth day, 0700 hours_  
  
If I was forced to explain it, I’d lay the blame for my string of bad decisions firmly on my desperate lack of sleep and caffeine. Although Chakotay should take some of the flak as well, because he really ought to have saved me a few more replicator rations. And Tom Paris – heaven forbid I neglect to credit his part in this disaster. He is, after all, the one who discovered Sopho in the first place.  
  
Then, of course, I can blame Harry Kim for remarking that Sopho bears a slight resemblance to Parrises Squares, and Seven of Nine for arguing that it’s more aligned with Velocity, and the pair of them for descending into an argument about which sport requires greater skill, strength and hand-eye coordination, and in the senior staff meeting, no less. As my migraine ratcheted up an extra few notches, I demanded they both shut up about it because Sopho was nothing like either game and their discussion was both irrelevant and unbecoming of a senior officer, which sent both of them into a sulk, and made me even more determined to play the damn game to win.  
  
Come to think of it, I have to lay plenty of fault at the Doctor’s feet. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with perfecting his latest aria, he might have twigged to the secondary effects of the Mandrin elixir. Especially when combined with that caffeinated nectar of the gods I enjoyed in such quantities last night.  
  
Wincing at my headache, which is worse than the last time I attended a Klingon opera, I finally force my eyelids to open a crack or two. My mouth feels like a parrot’s cage and my voice, when I allow a pained groan to cross my lips, is croakier than a Denebian bullfrog’s. I’m lying on my side, one arm and one leg hanging halfway over the edge of the bed, my cheek pressed to the pillow. I’m almost certain that when I finally drag up the energy to roll over, I’ll have an attractive trail of drool drying across my creased cheek.  
  
Worse than all of the above, though, are the snippets of recall that begin to insinuate themselves into my bleary brain. At one particularly vivid memory, I stifle a gasp of horror.  
  
God. Oh God. Surely I didn’t…?  
  
“Actually,” a sleep-husky male voice offers from the other side of the bed, “whatever you’ve just remembered, chances are you probably did.”  
  
My eyes spring open.  
  
Oh, God.

* * *

  
  
_The second day, 1000 hours_  
  
I’ve assigned Tom Paris to show the junior dignitaries around the ship while Chakotay and I take Prefect Dipi to start his tour on the bridge. As Tom leads a bevy of attractive men and women toward the mess hall, I hear him ask, “So, what do you guys do for fun down on Mandra?”  
  
Oh, how I wish I was chatting about art and books and entertainment, instead of preparing to barter for essentials on less than half an hour’s sleep.  
  
Prefect Dipi looks particularly psychedelic today. He’s decked out in what looks like a scuba suit, except that it’s iridescent purple and boasts enormous silver shoulder plates that wouldn’t look out of place on Klingon battle armour. He’s accompanied by yet another handsome, snappily-dressed young man. I can’t help noting that all the Mandrin I’ve met have been outrageously good-looking. Must be something in the water.  
  
Which reminds me …  
  
“Prefect Dipi,” I begin in my most persuasive tone as we finish touring Deck One and head down to the mess hall, “I very much enjoyed that cold drink you served yesterday. What was it called?”  
  
“You mean kaffa? Yes, it’s quite a popular beverage among children on our world. We usually serve it to alien visitors so as not to offend your palates. It’s not quite as robust as our usual fare.”  
  
“Really? It reminds me of a drink from my home world. We call it iced coffee.” I give him a winning smile. “Coffee is more usually served hot, though.”  
  
“Captain Janeway is quite the coffee aficionado,” Chakotay interjects.  
  
Yes, and would I ever kill for a cup right now.  
  
“Is that so?” Dipi smiles at me indulgently. “I’d be interested to try this coffee of yours.”  
  
“Then you’re in luck,” I answer as the mess hall doors sweep open and Neelix toddles over to us. I make the introductions and send him into the galley to brew up a pot from my carefully-concealed, emergency-only stash of beans.  
  
“Intriguing,” Dipi murmurs, cupping his hands around the steaming mug and taking an experimental sniff. He sips and his eyes widen. “Captain Janeway, you’ve been holding out on me! This is … this is _magnificent_!”  
  
I can’t help smirking proudly. “It is, isn’t it? Sadly, my supply won’t last the length of our trip. Our replicators make a good facsimile, but there’s nothing that compares to an honest cup of coffee, freshly made from beans grown on my very own arabica bush.”  
  
“You – you have the means to produce this substance?”  
  
“Yes, as I mentioned, we have replicator technology –”  
  
“No, no!” he interrupts excitedly. “We have energy-to-matter transference technology also, but like your replicators, the kaffa drinks they produce cannot compare to the real thing. Sadly, kaffa plants will no longer grow on Mandra or any of our colony worlds. Years of genetically modifying the species in an attempt to produce better fruit resulted in an incurable blight. Only small amounts of the fruit have been preserved, and any Mandrin lucky enough to own some would become instantly wealthy if he decided to sell it.” He pauses to savour another sip. “Your coffee, however, would seem to be of a similar quality. It’s _wondrous_. How did you say it was cultivated?”  
  
Just as I’m opening my mouth to steer the Prefect back in the direction of giving me a lifetime’s supply of kaffa, which is a far more palatable coffee substitute than anything Neelix has come up with, Tom Paris slides into the seat beside me.  
  
“Captain, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been speaking with Underprefect Shal” – he indicates a beautiful dark-haired woman heading in our direction – “and she’s invited a few of us to head down to the planet tonight. There’s a tournament of the most popular Mandrin sport. I was wondering if Harry, B’Elanna and I could attend?”  
  
“Ah, the Sopho tournament!” Dipi interjects. “Wonderful idea, Shal. In fact, Captain, why don’t you transport down as well? I’m sure you’d enjoy it greatly.”  
  
“Oh, thank you, Prefect, but I’m afraid I have too many commitments.”  
  
“The tournament continues into tomorrow night, with the skill level increasing as players are disqualified. You must come for the final round, then. No, no, I insist,” he interrupts as I start to demur.  
  
“Captain, staying an extra day or two won’t delay our journey by too much,” Chakotay suggests. “And a couple of days’ shore leave, if it can be arranged, would be beneficial for the crew.”  
  
Traitor. I glare at him. “Very well then, Commander. Thank you, Prefect. We’d be honoured.”  
  
“Excellent.” Dipi swallows the last of his arabica blend. “Now, about that coffee plant you mentioned…?”

 

* * *

  
  
I’m beginning to feel a certain kinship with Prefect Dipi. As I usher him and his attendant into the airponics bay and proudly show him the (admittedly small and spindly) _coffea arabica_ plant I’ve been carefully cultivating, Dipi falls to his knees, an enthralled expression on his face.  
  
“This? This produces that marvellous beverage?” he asks in tones of hushed reverence.  
  
“It does indeed.” I launch into a brief explanation of the harvesting process, how to husk the fruit and dry the beans, the various types of roasting and their effects. Dipi listens raptly, interjecting with the occasional question, mostly about soil nutrients and optimal growing conditions.  
  
“And the brew I enjoyed in your mess hall,” he finishes, “that was made from the produce of this very bush?”  
  
“Yes, from the last harvest. Unfortunately I’m almost out of beans, and the next crop of fruit won’t be ready for several weeks.” I pause, then add, “Which is why I was hoping to acquire some of your kaffa in addition to our other requirements, but since kaffa fruit no longer grows on your world, I guess I’m out of luck.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Dipi stands and looks at me cannily, and I straighten. Gone is the effulgent diplomat of moments before, and in his place stands an astute trader. “However, I’d be willing to offer you everything you’ve asked for – minerals, supplies – in exchange for nothing more than this little plant.”  
  
My jaw drops slightly. Behind me, I feel Chakotay shift nervously on his feet.  
  
“Prefect, that’s a very generous offer, but –”  
  
Dipi holds up a hand. “Before you respond, Captain, take some time to think about it. I understand your need for dilithium, in particular, is pressing. I’d be willing to provide you with double your stated requirement at no extra cost.”  
  
“Captain,” Chakotay murmurs. I turn to meet his eyes, and read in them the same quandary I’m struggling with.  
  
Everything the ship needs for the sake of one small coffee bush. It should be simple. A captain always puts her ship first, doesn’t she?  
  
I shouldn’t even have to think about it. But out here, real, home-grown coffee is one of the few indulgences I allow myself. I’m embarrassed, actually, at how fiercely I guard that indulgence. In a way, it’s become my last link to the woman I was before I became nothing more than the captain.  
  
And I’m not at all sure that I’m ready to let go of that woman completely.  
  
I turn back to Prefect Dipi.  
  
“I’ll consider your offer,” I answer him hesitantly, and he smiles as though he’s already won.

 

* * *

  
  
_The third day, 0900 hours_  
  
Chakotay scowls at me from across the conference table as the senior staff file in, and the mood in the room is instantly dampened by the obvious tension between us. Tom and Harry exchange glances and warily sit at the opposite end of the table from Chakotay and me, B’Elanna stiffens her shoulders as through preparing for battle, and even Tuvok raises his eyebrow a millimetre.  
  
“Good,” I snap, “now that we’re all here, we can get started. Mr Paris, you attended the Sopho tournament last night. Your report, please?”  
  
“Ah,” he clears his throat, “yes, of course, Captain. Well, Sopho looks a little confusing at first but when it comes down to it, the rules are fairly clear. The players start out in teams, working together to score points, but as contestants are disqualified it becomes a game of strategy. Ultimately there’s only one winner.”  
  
“Disqualified how?”  
  
“Uh, well, the aim in Sopho is to score points by forcing opposing players to commit rules violations, but because it’s so fast-moving and there are only two referees, things do get missed. And the referees have their own scoring systems, so one umpire might overlook a transgression while the other umpire red-cards a player for it.”  
  
“I thought you said the rules were clear, Mr Paris?” I fold my arms.  
  
“Yes, ma’am. There’s obviously skill involved in the way the players wield their mallets, but when it comes down to it the goal is to screw over every other competitor until you’re the last man standing. Or, uh, woman.” Paris coughs. “So the best players are quick, sneaky and ruthless.”  
  
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” I smirk at him. “Now, if you’d explain the purpose of the elixir?”  
  
“It’s a prerequisite for any Sopho player, Captain. The Mandrin claim it provides energy and mental clarity and increases visual acuity, which makes for a more exciting game. Players are tested before the game to make sure there’s an acceptable level of elixir in their bloodstream.”  
  
“First sport I’ve ever heard of where you’re tested to make sure you _have_ taken performance-enhancing drugs,” Harry remarks.  
  
Chakotay snorts, but subsides when I glare at him.  
  
“Doctor,” I turn to the EMH, “what can you tell me about the elixir?”  
  
“Apparently the elixir is made from a serum that’s been genetically engineered to mimic the effects of the kaffa plant, which was indigenous to Mandra before it died out a few decades ago.” The Doctor consults his padd. “There seems to be no lasting effect on humanoid physiology, but I guarantee you’ll be raring to go, Captain.”  
  
“Well, I’ll need all the help I can get, Doctor. I intend to play for keeps.” I turn back to Tom. “I’ll study the rules in detail later, but give me a quick rundown.”  
  
“Actually, Captain, if you don’t mind I’ll defer to Ensign Kim on this one. He’s the sports aficionado.”  
  
I nod at Harry, who blushes. “It’s not too dissimilar to Parrises Squares, actually, Captain. The players are organised into teams – at least during the first rounds – and use mallets to direct the disc into targets placed around the designated playing zone.”  
  
“I disagree, Ensign Kim,” Seven of Nine butts in. “While there is a superficial resemblance to Parrises Squares, this is a game of precision and strategy. It bears a closer affinity to Velocity in that respect. Parrises Squares is less cerebral.”  
  
“Parrises Squares players have to be both physically strong and quick-witted, and they work in teams,” Harry objects, two spots of colour beginning to burn on his cheekbones. “How can you say there’s no strategy in it?”  
  
“Velocity requires a high degree of spatial awareness and an ability to predict complex geometric probabilities. By comparison, Parrises Squares is a game for blundering children.”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to retort and I interrupt quickly before he and Seven can come to blows. “Enough. I think it would be better if I study the rules without distraction. Before I do, is there anything else I need to know?”  
  
Tuvok offers, “Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to mention that Sopho is played in a zero-gravity environment, Captain.”  
  
My shoulders droop. “Really? Zero-g?” There goes my idea of eating a calorific lunch beforehand; I’d be guaranteed to lose it.  
  
“Also,” he continues, “as the knock-out rounds proceed, the target zones become gradually smaller, and contestants are fitted with bioplasmic target sensors which, when struck by an opponent, generate a small electrostatic charge that can disorient the unfortunate recipient for several seconds. I would advise you to avoid being shocked by your opponents, should you reach the final rounds of the game, Captain.”  
  
I hear Chakotay growl softly from beside me.  
  
“Thank you, Mr Tuvok,” I say quickly. “Now, if there’s nothing else? Dismissed.”  
  
Chakotay is the last to leave, his brow set in a thunderous frown.

 

* * *

  
  
_The second day, 1600 hours_  
  
“I have to take Dipi’s offer, don’t I?” I slump onto the couch in my ready room, gazing morosely at the planet outside my viewport. “It would be terribly selfish of me not to.”  
  
“Kathryn.” Chakotay sits beside me and takes my hand in his, his eyes warm and gentle. “I’m sorry. I know how difficult this is for you.”  
  
I’m terribly tired, and my head is aching from caffeine withdrawal, and I’m utterly miserable at giving up my last link to home. Before I can think twice I scoot forward into his welcoming arms, resting my forehead on his broad shoulder. Chakotay’s hands are stroking my back and I can feel the tension draining away.  
  
I turn my face into the warmth of his neck, breathing him in, that spicy, soapy scent that’s all male and all him. I feel his pulse jump under my lips and I can’t resist leaning up to nip at his earlobe. He inhales sharply, his hands spreading over my back, drawing me closer. Our faces turn slowly, simultaneously, lips dragging over jawlines until our lips meet.  
  
Oh, his kiss. The way he holds me so tenderly, the way his mouth moves on mine. It’s so good to be held like this, to feel safe and protected and loved –  
  
~Tuvok to Captain Janeway.~  
  
Damn it! I’ve done it again. Thank God for Tuvok and his cold shower timing.  
  
Pulling out of Chakotay’s embrace and turning my flaming face away, I tap my combadge. “Janeway here.”  
  
~Prefect Dipi is calling from the planet’s surface, Captain.~  
  
“Put him through to my ready room.” Tugging my uniform straight, I head briskly down to my desk and switch on my console. “Good afternoon, Prefect. What can I do for you?”  
  
~Captain.~ The Prefect looks extraordinarily pleased with himself. ~I’m calling to make you a new offer.~  
  
“Go ahead,” I encourage him, studiously ignoring Chakotay as he approaches the desk.  
  
~I understand your reluctance to give up your coffee plant, Captain, so I’m proposing an alternative arrangement. The finals of our Sopho tournament are slated for tomorrow night, and the viewer turnout will likely double if we have a special guest star player. My offer is this: if you win the Sopho championship, I’ll supply you with everything you’ve asked for, and you may keep your coffee plant.~  
  
“And if I lose?”  
  
~If you lose,~ he pauses dramatically, ~you get nothing. And all your coffee belongs to us.~  
  
Slowly, I raise my eyes to Chakotay’s.  
  
He’s leaning over the opposite side of my desk, hands planted, shaking his head and mouthing ‘No’.  
  
I return my gaze to the monitor.  
  
“Your offer is accepted, Prefect Dipi,” I declare.

 

* * *

  
  
After the predictable argument with Chakotay, after he’s muttered something about my never listening to anyone and stormed out of the ready room, I allow myself the indulgence of a replicated coffee. Returning to my windowside couch, I sip at it slowly.  
  
I feel terribly guilty for letting Chakotay kiss me – no, let’s be honest, for initiating the kiss – and almost as guilty for blithely ignoring his objections to Dipi’s terms. But in a twisted sort of way, I’m doing this for us. Not that there is an us. And that’s my point.  
  
There’s a clear correlation, you see, between my caffeine levels and my ability to resist Chakotay’s charms. The less coffee I have access to, the more stressed-out I get. And the more stress I’m under, the more Chakotay’s right there offering to shoulder my burdens for me. And then I start to think about how good he is to me, how much he means to me, how much I care about him. And my defences grow weaker. And sooner or later, I let them down altogether, and we end up in bed. And every single time I regret it, because I can’t give him what he deserves.  
  
So, obviously, if I lose my coffee bush I’ll end up in bed with Chakotay. And that can’t happen. Not again.  
  
Sighing, I finish my coffee and return to my desk, summoning Tuvok and the Doctor so I can brief them on the deal I’ve made.

 

* * *

  
  
_The third day, 1800 hours_  
  
The Doctor’s mouth is tight as he runs the dermal regenerator over my arm.  
  
“So much for Sopho being a non-contact sport,” he mutters. “I’d like to give those Mandrins a piece of my mind. Not to mention Mr Paris and his lackadaisical approach to estimating the medical impacts of this so-called game. And as for _you_ , Captain – well, I suppose I should be used to your reckless endangerment of your person by now.”  
  
“Stow it, Doctor,” I snap at him, just as the Sickbay doors open and Chakotay comes pelting in.  
  
“Is she okay?” he asks, frantic. “Is she badly hurt?”  
  
“ _She_ is right here,” I say waspishly. “And as you can see, Commander, _she_ is just fine, and perfectly able to speak for herself.”  
  
Chakotay’s gaze rakes over me feverishly until he’s satisfied I am, indeed, fine. A small smile produces one dimple. “Did any of those knocks to the head cause her to speak of herself in the third person?”  
  
I can’t help grinning in response. He really is good at handling me. And unbearably good-looking. I should tell him that occasionally, I decide. He should know just how much I appreciate him –  
  
The Doctor snaps his tricorder shut. “Well, Captain. You’ve suffered multiple contusions and lacerations, sprains to your ankle, knee and wrist, a fractured elbow, broken nose and mild concussion. However, thanks of course to my medical expertise, you’re as good as new.”  
  
Chakotay’s expression darkens with each injury the Doctor lists, and by the end of the litany he’s standing barely inches from me, his hand on my shoulder, his dark eyes on mine.  
  
“Captain,” he says softly. “How are you feeling?”  
  
I open my mouth, but the Doctor cuts in.  
  
“Frankly, Commander, she probably feels fantastic. One of the compounds in that Mandrin elixir floods the brain with endorphins and serotonin. I doubt the captain felt a single one of those injuries.”  
  
Chakotay narrows his eyes at me, and I shrug, smiling helplessly. The Doctor’s right. I feel _amazing_.  
  
“You may be excused from my sickbay, Captain,” the Doctor adds pointedly, bustling back toward his office.  
  
Well, that’s a blessed relief. I hop down from the bio-bed and tuck my arm into Chakotay’s. “Come on, Commander. Now that I’ve been released on a good behaviour bond, what do you say you help me get dressed for this victory banquet?”  
  
I feel his surprise in the way his step falters, but as always, he recovers smoothly.  
  
“Aye Captain,” he replies, tucking me a little closer to his body as we leave Sickbay.


	2. Part Two

* * *

_The third day, 1300 hours_  
  
Well. One thing my senior staff failed to mention in their reports on Sopho was the utterly ridiculous costume.  
  
I glare at my reflection, twitching irritably under the second-skin outfit. It’s made of some kind of iridescent lime-green, wet-look latex and looks like a scuba suit covered in slime. The feeling of it on my skin is repellent.  
  
Narrow transparent tubing criss-crosses the suit from my shoulders to my hips, back and front, and a separate piece twines around each leg to the ankle. On my feet I’m wearing what I can only describe as pointy rubber slippers. Worst of all is the headpiece, which looks like a swimming cap with a rubber chinstrap and has JANEWAY printed in violet on the back of my skull.  
  
God. The things I do for coffee.  
  
Setting my shoulders, I stride with nonchalance out of my quarters, ignoring the wide eyes of each crewman I pass, and present myself to the transporter room.  
  
“Energise,” I order, and pretend I don’t hear the helpless laughter from the transport operator as I dematerialise.  
  
 Prefect Dipi is waiting for me, wearing a supercilious smile, as I rematerialise in the Mandrin transport station. His smirk widens when he sees me.  
  
“Ah, Captain, I see you’re already in the spirit of things,” he offers. “Have you studied the game guidelines I sent you?”  
  
“Guidelines? I thought they were rules, Prefect.”  
  
He offers his arm and I take it reluctantly. “The first thing you need to learn about Sopho,” he pats my arm a touch condescendingly for my liking, “is that the best contestants know how to bend the rules.”  
  
Now he tells me. Ah well, it’s not as if I’ve ever been the greatest stickler for protocol, after all. Except, of course, for the protocols I really hate.  
  
Dipi leads me to the anteroom just outside the auditorium where the first game of the tournament will begin in half an hour, hands me a mallet, and introduces me to my new teammates. There’s a baker’s dozen of them, and I forget most of their names immediately, but I figure it doesn’t really matter since they won’t be my teammates for long. I wonder how soon I’ll be able to start backstabbing them.  
  
Because I fully intend to be the one holding the trophy when this is all over.  
  
A bell tinkles somewhere and all the Sopho players scramble upright, forming up in two lines in front of the huge double doors leading into the auditorium. I attach myself to the back of my team’s line, heft my mallet experimentally and breathing evenly to curb the adrenaline rushing through my body. The doors swing slowly open, and as the first players run into the auditorium they’re greeted by a deafening cheer.  
  
I take in my first sight of the target zone and have to suppress an ‘oh, boy’.  
  
It’s huge, dome-shaped, with transparent walls criss-crossed with plaited ropes of some kind of silvery, flexible material. Some of the ropes extend through open space; I can only guess these are used by the players to propel themselves around in the zero-gravity environment. There’s one large target at the apex of the dome, one in the centre of the floor and several dotted around the walls, but I know as the tournament proceeds that number will decline.  
  
“You ready for this, Janeway?” hollers Tojo, the self-appointed captain of my team, as we run into the target zone.  
  
Maybe it’s the atmosphere – all those thousands of people crammed into this auditorium, and millions more watching on live feeds, including my crew. Maybe it’s the Mandrin elixir rushing through my veins. Or maybe it’s the high stakes I’m playing for. But hell yes, I’m ready.  
  
I yell back, “Bring it on.”  
  
Tojo nods, satisfied. “Try to take me out and I’ll end you. Let’s go!”  
  
The bell shrills again, my feet lift off the floor as the gravity plating is switched off, and bodies explode into motion all around me.  
  
There follows the most exhilarating, exhausting, brain-bending half-hour of my life. Sopho bouts only go for thirty minutes – less, if more than three players in a team get disqualified – but each session is a blur of whirling mallets and flying target discs, a cacophony of shouts and applause and the screeching of bells as discs hit targets. I quickly realise that this game bears only the slightest resemblance to anything I’ve played before. And Dipi was right – every single competitor seems to flout the rules whenever they think they can get away with it.  
  
At the end of the first round,  two members of each team have been eliminated but my team is slightly ahead on points. I haven’t scored any, though. And if I’m to stay in this competition, that has to change.  
  
I need to get aggressive.  
  
Bouncing on my toes as the bell for Round Two chimes, I decide to change up my strategy, which so far has been to avoid trouble. I push off the wall of the dome, mallet swinging, smack the disc away from one of my opponents and deliver a sneaky kick to the side of his knee as I duck past him. He tumbles away from me with a groan and I tense, waiting for the whistle that will signal my disqualification, but it never comes. So I keep swinging from the ropes, dodging another opponent who tries to steal the disc from me, whirl my mallet and slap the disc into the target.  
  
Point, Janeway.  
  
Over the course of the next ninety minutes, I score another twelve points, avoid major injury countless times, and lose another eight members of my team. At the end of round three, we’re down to only the two main targets on the floor and the dome’s roof. By the time the contestants for the semi-final round are called, it’s just Tojo and one other from my team, three players from Team Beta, and me.  
  
From this point on, teamwork is a thing of the past.  
  
The odd tubing on my suit starts to shimmer and I stare at it in confusion. And then I remember Tuvok’s warning about the bioplasmic target sensors, and realise that if anything comes into forceful contact with these tubes, I’m going to get shocked.  
  
Oh crap. I’m a walking livewire.  
  
The bell tinkles, and before I can so much as draw breath, Tojo is rushing me. I yank down on the rope I’m holding, twisting to avoid her, but she manages to elbow me in the back and catch one of my sensor tubes. The resulting shock bows my back, grits my teeth and renders me almost insensible for a couple of seconds. By the time I’ve recovered, Tojo has scored a point, one of Team Beta is unconscious on the dome floor, and my other erstwhile teammate is pushing himself in my direction, a feral grin on his face.  
  
This, I gather, is where the elixir really comes into its own. Sizing up my predicament at a glance, I swing my mallet overhead, hook it onto a rope and use the momentum to swing myself out of reach. The move puts me right in the path of one of the other contestants, who happens to be controlling the disc. Twisting my torso, I execute a perfect zero-g swan dive, steal the disc as I whoosh past, and slam it gleefully into the floor target.  
  
I’m third on points now, and I’ve just made myself a target, too. For the next half hour I dodge mallets and elbows, deliver as many glancing blows as I can, fake an injury to disqualify one of my competitors, and score another two points. At the end of the round, I’m second on the score board and the last three players standing are Tojo, the Beta team captain, and me.  
  
I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.  
  
At least, until the final round starts and Tojo, darting past me, delivers a devious kick to my thigh that connects with my sensor tube and sends a shock through my system so violent that I see stars.  
  
When I come out of my daze, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth and my head is pounding, probably because I’ve spun into the dome wall and cracked it on the transparent aluminium.  
  
I tense immediately, glancing around for my opponents, because although a player is supposed to be out of bounds once they’ve suffered a sensor hit, I wouldn’t put it past Tojo to try to permanently incapacitate me anyway. But fortunately she’s fully occupied with trying to parry the disc past the Beta captain. And this, I realise, is my chance.  
  
Gliding up from below them, I track their movements until I see my opportunity. Then, putting on a burst of speed, I twist between them, giving the disc a whack with my mallet that sends it soaring into the rooftop target. I spin, flicking a scissor-kick at Tojo’s shoulder tube and bringing the mallet down on the Beta captain’s thigh.  
  
I feel a wave of guilt as they both convulse in pain, but the roar of the crowd and the ringing of the championship bell dull it down to a faint twinge.  
  
I’ve won. And the coffee is mine.

 

* * *

  
  
_The third day, 1830 hours_  
  
After a missed night’s sleep, three hours of intense exercise and a trip to Sickbay to patch up my cuts and bruises, I should be sinking into exhaustion. But as Chakotay escorts me to my quarters to dress for the presentation of the Sopho trophy, I’m more geared up than ever.  
  
So full of energy, in fact, that I start to wonder if I should be worried.  
  
And that’s not the most disconcerting aspect. I’m a little concerned about my brain-to-mouth filter. No matter how little sleep I’ve had, I’m generally careful not to snap at the Doctor when he gets into one of his snits. As for flirtatiously inviting Chakotay to help me dress …  
  
We enter my quarters and I pick up the box Prefect Dipi had sent up for me, pulling out the garment.  
  
Well. Come to think of it, I will need someone’s help with this. I don’t even know what it is, let alone how to wear the damn thing. It’s just… one long piece of fabric, like a bandage.  
  
I turn to Chakotay, my arms full of shimmery blue-green material, my nose scrunched up in confusion. His eyebrows are practically in his hairline.  
  
“I, ah, don’t suppose it came with instructions?” he asks.  
  
I check the box and find there is a slip of paper nestled inside. As I lift it out, it concertinas to the floor.  
  
“Oh,” says Chakotay.  
  
“Here.” I thrust the bandage and the booklet into his arms. “You figure this out. I need a shower.”  
  
By the time I come out, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in a robe, Chakotay is pacing back and forth across my living area and there’s an open bottle of whiskey on the table. I give him an enquiring look.  
  
He shrugs, waving a hand at the bandage, which is draped over the couch. “You’re not going to like it.”  
  
“Show me.” I hold out my hand for the instruction booklet and flip through until I find the illustration depicting the finished product. My eyes go wide, and I hold out my other hand. Chakotay places a glass of whiskey in it.  
  
“Is the deal contingent on you wearing this thing,” he asks in a semi-strangled tone, “or was it enough to win that tournament?”  
  
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t put it past Prefect Dipshit to renege on me.”  
  
Chakotay quickly suppresses his smile as my hands go to my hips.  
  
“I’m going to have to wear it,” I scowl, turning to him. “And you’re going to help me.”  
  
“Me?” He shifts his feet. “Uh, Kathryn, are you sure that’s wise?”  
  
“Who else am I going to ask? Neelix? Harry Kim?” I glare at him. “Come on, Chakotay, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”  
  
“That’s the problem,” he mutters under his breath, then sighs. “All right, Kathryn. I’ll do my best.”  
  
“Well, thanks for making it sound like such a chore,” I snipe at him. “Let’s get this over with, then.”  
  
I drop my robe.  
  
Chakotay picks up the long scarf of fabric, steps toward me, and – studiously avoiding looking me in the eye – loops it over my shoulder and begins to criss-cross the material around my body.  
  
Touching me, as I’m sure he knows, is unavoidable. The fabric winds over my breasts, back around my waist, across my hips, over and again. His fingers brush my bare skin, skate lightly over me as the material begins to cover me, and occasionally I feel the soft wash of his breath on my shoulder, the back of my neck. I stand as still as I can. There’s lightning crackling through my veins, and I can’t tell how much of it is the elixir, and how much of it is him.  
  
When he finishes, tying off the last of it in a knot at my hip, I have to clamp my teeth into my bottom lip to control the urge to reach for him.  
  
“How does it look?” I force myself to ask.  
  
“Um,” he mumbles. “It suits you. If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’d better go and…” The rest of Chakotay’s words are lost as he backs out of my quarters as fast as he’s able.  
  
I turn to the mirror with trepidation.  
  
I’m pleasantly surprised. Yes, this is a lot tighter, and there’s a lot less of it, than I’d like. But it’s not as scandalous as the instruction book made it seem. Either that, or Chakotay has very thoughtfully made a few modifications to the prescribed wrapping technique.  
  
I wonder how I’m supposed to unwrap it later. I wonder if I’ll need help …  
  
Deliberately avoiding that rabbit-hole, I pour myself another whiskey before I sit down to fix my hair and makeup.  


* * *

  
  
_The third day, 2000 hours_  
  
Flushed with triumph and clutching my hard-won trophy, I take my seat at the head of the banquet table. Chakotay, in dress uniform, is seated to my left and Prefect Dipi to my right. The Prefect has outdone himself tonight: he’s wearing some kind of glittery gold toga and a jewelled headdress that increases his height by a good metre and a half. God only knows how heavy that thing is.  
  
“Again, congratulations, Captain,” he greets me, eyeing my figure appreciatively as I adjust my dress-bandage. “This is the first time an off-worlder has won the Sopho tournament. And it was your first time playing, too.”  
  
“I was highly motivated.” I can’t stop grinning, thinking about all that dilithium and the food and medical supplies and my lovely, lovely coffee bush that I won’t have to give up.  
  
Chakotay is inspecting my trophy with a bemused look on his face. “What are these engravings, Prefect?” He runs a finger over the symbols carved into the trophy’s base.  
  
“It’s on ancient Mandrin prayer,” Dipi answers. He traces the symbols as he chants: “ _A strong heart, a clever mind, a valiant spirit. With life’s elixir, the challenge is overcome_.”  
  
“Your society seems very fond of your elixir,” Chakotay remarks.  
  
“Oh, yes. It’s the purest form of kaffa that remains since all our plants died off. And in some form, replicated kaffa is integrated into all our beverages. Take this one, for example,” Dipi  gestures as a server leans over to pour a dark, fruity-smelling liquid into my glass, “this is ginka, a drink we commonly enjoy with meals. Try some.”  
  
I sip, and my eyes widen. Wow, this thing packs a punch. The burn of hard liquor coats the back of my tongue and brings tears to my eyes, but as the liquid slides down my throat it’s smooth and full and tastes of blackberries. Appreciatively, I sip it again.  
  
Chakotay sniffs his glass before taking an experimental swallow, and promptly puts it aside.  
  
“Don’t you like it?” I whisper to him.  
  
“It’s delicious,” he murmurs, “but it’s probably twice the alcohol content of whiskey. You might want to be careful with it, Kathryn.”  
  
High on my victory and still buzzing lightly from the after-effects of the elixir, I roll my eyes. “Such a mother hen, Chakotay. I can handle my liquor,” and to prove it, I gulp down the rest of my glass and hold it out for more.  
  
The second glass goes down even easier than the first, and I sit back in my chair as the powerful rush of kaffa-soaked alcohol begins to hit me.  
  
Chakotay’s brow furrows, and Dipi hides a smile. “Your captain is a woman who knows her own mind, Commander,” he suggests.  
  
“Damn straight,” I declare, my glass held out for a third refill. “And this woman has a pretty good idea what’s on _your_ mind, too,” I add as Dipi’s gaze slides down my cleavage again.  
  
“ _Kathryn_ ,” Chakotay admonishes.  
  
I pat him on the arm, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry, Commander. If he gets fresh, you have my permission to deck him.”  
  
A bell sounds before Chakotay can reply, and Dipi rises, holding up his glass. “Friends and honoured guests,” he begins in sonorous tones, “today, we witnessed a momentous event. For the first time in Mandrin history, a visitor to our world has competed with the best of our Sopho players and outclassed them all …”  
  
His speech continues, but I’m no longer listening. I’ve just noticed a odd collection of what looks like soft leather thimbles beside my plate. I pick one up to study it. What on earth could these be for? Experimentally, I fit it over my index finger, and instantly one of the tiny canapés on the dish in the centre of the table flies over and adheres itself to the thimble.  
  
What …?  
  
Chakotay is watching in fascination, as well. He leans in to whisper, “This must be Mandrin cutlery.”  
  
“How on earth does it work?” I hiss back. “Some kind of kinetic energy? They must be inert until they interact with humanoid biochemistry.”  
  
“… honoured to pay our respects to Captain Janeway,” Dipi’s voice rises, catching my attention, and I realise the other dinner guests are standing with their glasses raised.  
  
Chakotay and I scramble to our feet and I plaster a smile on my face.  
  
“To Captain Janeway,” Dipi announces, and the guests echo him, and they all drink.  
  
“Thanks,” I reply, and reach for my glass. But as I move my hand, the thimble loses its grip on the canapé and the little morsel of food shoots off and plops into my glass. “Ew,” I mutter before I can stifle it.  
  
Chakotay’s dimples appear and just as quickly retreat. He hands me his glass.  
  
Everybody is watching me expectantly. Oh, crap. I think I’m supposed to make a speech. Okay. My head is starting to spin, but I can do this.  
  
“Um,” I begin. “Right, well, first of all, thank you all for the chance to participate in your Sopho tournament. I had a blast, and I particularly enjoyed kicking Tojo’s ass.” I break off to snicker, realise my hosts are simply watching me politely, and hurry on. “Okay. On behalf of _Voyager_ and her crew, I also thank you for the supplies you’ve, um, supplied. Without them we’d probably be stuck here. Which, though, wouldn’t be so bad, right? I mean, you appreciate coffee, or kaffa, or whatever you call it, and I can get behind that.”  
  
Chakotay clears his throat.  
  
“Where was I? Oh, yes. Thanks for the trophy. Thanks for the kaffa, and what was this drink called? Ginka. It’s fantastic. And thanks for this bandage thing, too. We had a lot of fun putting it on, right, Chakotay?” I nudge him with my elbow – a little harder than I’d intended, because he teeters to the left before he regains his footing.  
  
By now the dinner guests are staring at me wide-eyed.  
  
“What? I’m speeching. But I’m done now, so everybody drink up. Slainte!” I up-end the dregs of Chakotay’s ginka into my throat, grin at them all and thump back into my chair before my inertial dampeners can fail.  
  
The Mandrin slowly take their seats, carefully averting their gazes from me, and gradually the quiet hum of conversation resumes.  
  
Chakotay leans toward me. “Nice speech,” he comments dryly.  
  
“Thanks,” I nod emphatically, then whisper loudly, “I’m pretty drunk, Chakotay. I think I should eat something before I cause a pidlomatic incident.”  
  
“Diplomatic?” he queries.  
  
“That’s what I said.”  
  
“Let’s get some food into you,” he says patiently.  
  
He helps me fit the thimbles over the fingers on my right hand. When he’s done, I wiggle them experimentally, and morsels from all around the table shoot toward me, one narrowly missing Dipi’s shoulder.  
  
“Whoa,” I giggle. “Can you imagine what Tom Paris would do with these things, Chakotay? Dinner in the mess hall would never be the same.”  
  
I wriggle my fingers again and the canapés fly off in all directions. One lands in the lap of a dignitary halfway down the table. Chakotay’s hand closes around my wrist.  
  
“Why don’t you let me handle the food situation,” he suggests.  
  
I stare at the strong brown fingers wrapped around my wrist and have an almost uncontrollable urge to lick them. My brain feels like it’s sloshing around inside my skull.  
  
“By all means.” My words are starting to slur. “Feed me, Chakotay.”  
  
He fits on his own thimbles, carefully waggles his forefinger. A little round hors d’oeuvre springs merrily to his fingertip and he extends it toward me. Meeting his gaze, I lick my lips and watch his eyes darken.  
  
“Kathryn,” he warns quietly.  
  
Blinking at him innocently, I lean forward and curl my tongue around the morsel. “Mm,” I purr, swallowing. “Delicious.”  
  
On my other side, Prefect Dipi makes a spluttering sound. I raise an eyebrow at him. “What?” I demand. “Don’t you have foreplay on your world?”  
  
Chakotay sucks in a breath.  
  
I turn to wink at him, although I suspect the effect is ruined by the fact my eyes are crossing. “You’re such a good first officer,” I slur. “Very, very good.”  
  
Clumsily I reach up to ruffle his hair. A few locks flop over his forehead. His hand comes up to smooth it back, and I grab his wrist.  
  
“Don’t do that,” I glare at him. “I like the sex hair. You should always wear it like that.” Then I cock my head. “No, that’d be dangerous. I might molest you on the bridge, and Karry Him would never recover from that.”  
  
It’s clear Chakotay doesn’t know whether to laugh or haul me out of here. I release his wrist and grab for another glass of ginka.  
  
“Absolutely not,” Chakotay snatches it out of my hand. “In fact, Captain, I think we should make our excuses.”  
  
Dipi dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Please don’t leave on my account.”  
  
“You hear that, Chakotay?” My head is listing to the side now and I’m pretty sure Chakotay just grew a twin. “He likes me!”  
  
“Very much,” agrees Dipi, leaning over to pat my knee.  
  
“In fact,” I stare at the Prefect’s hand, suddenly morose, “I think he likes me better than you do, Cha-ko-tay. And he’s very pretty. Maybe you should go. I’ll stay.”  
  
“That’s not a good idea, Captain.” Chakotay looks pointedly at Dipi’s hand until he lifts it from my knee. “Prefect, if you’ll excuse us, I believe the captain needs a trip to Sickbay.”  
  
“Aw,” I grumble as Chakotay slips an arm around my waist and lifts me to feet that seem unable to point in the right directions. “You’re such a spoilsport sometimes. Worse than Tuvok.” I like the sound of that word, so I say it again. “Toooo-vok. _Too-vok_.”  
  
“Come on,” Chakotay mutters, dragging me away from the table.  
  
“Bye,” I call to the Mandrin. There seem to be a few more of them than there were when I sat down. I waggle my fingers, forgetting I’m still wearing the cutlery thimbles. Bits of food fly toward me from all angles. “Whoa! Food fight,” I shout, waving my hand dramatically and dissolving into snorting giggles as the canapés bounce merrily off plates and shoulders and skulls.  
  
Chakotay swears under his breath, quickening his step.  
  
“This is the best party ever,” I shout over my shoulder as we stumble away.  


* * *

  
  
_The fourth day, 0900 hours_  
  
Crap.  
  
Oh, God.  
  
Fragments of memory keep assailing me, each one making me cringe anew. If my head wasn’t already about to burst with bright spikes of agony, I’d be banging it against a wall right now.  
  
Have the turbolifts always been this loud? That servo whine is setting my teeth on edge. There’s a Tsunkatse match going on in my head right now, and that irritating squeal is not helping. I’m half tempted to make a stop in Sickbay for an analgesic –  
  
Oh. Oh, hell. Sickbay means facing the EMH, and there’s no way in Gre’thor I’m doing that today.  
  
No. Straight to the cargo bay for me. I have supplies to inspect, and no matter how dismal I feel, I’m the captain. I need to buck up.  
  
The turbolift stops with a jolt on deck eight and my stomach lurches. Maybe I should’ve slugged down some water before I bolted out of my quarters this morning, but I couldn’t stand one more second of Chakotay’s smirk. Oh, he was pretending to be sympathetic. But I know he was laughing at me.  
  
And with good reason. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as the memory of my humiliating speech at dinner last night comes back to me. God, why didn’t Chakotay have me beamed out of there before I made a total fool of myself?  
  
Why didn’t I show some self-restraint and stop drinking after one glass of ginka?  
  
And speaking of self-restraint, or lack thereof … what did happen in my quarters last night?

 

* * *

  
  
_The third day, 2200 hours_  
  
“Chakotay to Sickbay. Doctor, are you there?”  
  
I can hear the EMH’s put-upon tone through the comm system as I sway around the room, singing my favourite aria from _La Traviata_.  
  
~Sickbay here, Commander. What is that noise?~  
  
“That’s the captain,” Chakotay answers dryly, “and that’s the reason I’ve called. Could you bring a detox kit to the captain’s quarters,” he pauses as I reach a crescendo, “immediately?”  
  
~Clearly an emergency,~ the Doctor says dryly. ~I’m on my way, Commander.~  
  
“Kathryn,” Chakotay raises his voice as he closes the channel, “the Doctor will be here soon. Why don’t you come and sit down?”  
  
He pats the couch beside him and I trip my way over, executing a pirouette and landing half on top of him. “Oops.”  
  
Chakotay tries to gently ease me off him.  
  
“Nope.” My arms wind around his neck. “I’m staying right here. You’re comfortable.” I push my face into the crook of his neck and inhale. “And you smell really, really good.”  
  
“Kath-ryn,” he almost groans.  
  
“Cha-ko-tay,” I purr, licking his ear.  
  
“Ahem,” offers the Doctor, standing just inside my quarters with his eyebrows raised.  
  
“What are you doing here?” I demand, scrambling off Chakotay’s lap and falling flat on my face.  
  
“The detox hypo you requested?” the EMH addresses Chakotay, waggling the hypospray in his hand. “Looks like it can’t come a moment too soon.”  
  
I roll onto my back and stare up at them. “You know, you two are tall. Really, really tall.”  
  
The Doctor gives a longsuffering sigh and bends to release the hypospray into my neck. My eyes blur as his face comes closer.  
  
“Whoa, Doctor. You have four nostrils.”  
  
The Doctor straightens up and pulls out his tricorder. He taps it, frowning.  
  
“What is it?” Chakotay crouches on my other side and I snake out a hand and run it up under his trouser leg. He shifts away from me.  
  
“The intoxicant in her bloodstream isn’t dissipating,” the Doctor answers. “There seems to be some kind of alien enzyme at play here. It’s counteracting the effects of the hypospray.”  
  
I start humming the aria again and the Doctor winces.  
  
“Can’t you give her something else?” Chakotay pleads.  
  
“Not before I take a blood sample, analyse the enzyme and come up with a counteragent, by which time it should have worked its way out of her system anyway.” The EMH closes his tricorder with a snap and stands.  
  
“I never noticed how pretty my ceiling was,” I mumble from my prone position.  
  
“So there’s nothing you can do?” Chakotay disentangles my fingers from his other ankle.  
  
“I’m sorry, Commander. Looks like she’ll have to sleep it off.” The EMH pats him on the shoulder. “She shouldn’t be left alone tonight. I recommend you assign a crewmember to stay with her.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Chakotay mutters. “She’d just love waking up hungover to find some lower decks crewman in her quarters.”  
  
I squint, trying to focus on him. “You stay with me, Chakotay.”  
  
“Looks like you have your solution, Commander.” The Doctor smirks, heading for the door. “Make sure she drinks plenty of water, and call me in the morning. I’ll have something ready for the headache she’ll undoubtedly have.”  
  
The doors swish shut behind him and I tug on the hem of Chakotay’s pants. “Get down here.”  
  
He stumbles and narrowly avoids crashing down on top of me, catching himself on the coffee table. “I have a better idea, Kathryn. Let’s get you into bed.”  
  
“I thought you’d never ask,” I snicker.  
  
Chakotay rolls his eyes and leans down to sling my arms around his neck, tugging me upright. I lean into him, keeping my arms draped over his shoulders, my body pressing tightly to his. I feel him shiver, so I crane my neck to nip at him, just under the jaw.  
  
“About that bed,” I slur.  
  
“Kathryn … you’re drunk.”  
  
“In vino veritas, Chakotay.” My fingers reach to ruffle the hair over his forehead. Sex hair. I press my lips to his adam’s apple.  
  
“Don’t do this to me,” he sighs.  
  
“Why not?” I lick at his dimpled chin. “Promise I’ll still respect you in the morning.”  
  
“But you won’t respect yourself.” He moves me away from him firmly, hands on my hips until I stop swaying.  
  
I pout for a minute, then cock a hip to one side as my fingers fumble with the knot that fastens my dress-bandage. Slowly, I tug at the end of the fabric. His eyes follow my movements as the material begins to loosen.  
  
“Here, you do it.” I push the bandage-end into his hand and turn leisurely in a full circle so that the dress begins to unpeel itself from my figure. By the time I spin back to face him his pupils have gone wide. I raise my arms and spin again, and again, faster and faster as he holds onto the end of the fabric, until I feel the last of it slip from my shoulders and I’m standing before him in nothing but a very brief pair of lacy panties.  
  
Then vertigo catches up with me and I groan, holding a hand to my head.  
  
Instantly he’s got one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back, and my feet are off the ground. It’s like flying, and there’s something exhilarating in it. At least, until my stomach catches up with the motion.  
  
“Ugh, put me down! I’m going to be sick!”  
  
He sprints into the bathroom. I struggle out of his arms and crash to my knees before the toilet, emptying what feels like my entire bodyweight in ginka into the bowl.  
  
Gentle hands hold my hair and rub my back as I slump moaning over the toilet.  
  
“Kathryn? Are you all right?”  
  
I grunt something ashamed and incomprehensible, then lean forward for round two.  
  
_Oh God,_ is my last coherent thought, _I’m never drinking again_.  


* * *

  
  
_The fourth day, 1900 hours_  
  
I’ve managed to avoid Chakotay all day, which is quite a feat, really. I’m horribly ashamed of my behaviour last night – though at least I’ve managed to piece together enough of my memory to understand that he refused to take advantage of me in my inebriated state.  
  
Actually, maybe Chakotay has been avoiding me as much as I have him. It’s not every day your captain gets shit-faced and throws herself at you.  
  
Maybe he didn’t turn me down because he was being a gentleman. Maybe my drunken ass was unattractive enough that he’s been cured of his fondness for me.  
  
That thought makes my heart ache worse than my head does, so I firmly stop thinking it.  
  
The worst part of my day has to have been my shamefaced apology to Prefect Dipi. No matter how amused he seems to have been by the whole fiasco, I’m mortified. Finally admitting I need the Doctor’s help came a close second though. That little smirk at the edges of his holographic mouth as he administered the analgesic hypo was almost more than I could take.  
  
Still, at least my shift is over now, and I’ve retired to my quarters with my fifth cup of coffee – no more energy shortage, which means I can indulge as much as I like – and a few reports I’ll pretend to read while I soak in a bubble bath.  
  
I’ve put aside my padd and have just started to slip into a doze when I hear the door chime. Damn it.  
  
“Enter,” I call as I haul myself out of the bath, wrapping myself in a thick robe that’s so oversized it almost engulfs me. As I’m rolling up the far-too-long sleeves I step out into my living area.  
  
Chakotay is standing there holding a small package and wearing a slightly sheepish smile. I stop dead.  
  
When it becomes clear I’ve been struck dumb, he takes a couple of tentative steps toward me. “How are you feeling, Captain?”  
  
_Captain_. Not _Kathryn_. Ugh. Why am I so deflated?  
  
“Fine,” I mutter. “Commander, I’m sorry about – well, everything. You know.”  
  
A dimple appears in one cheek. “Don’t mention it.”  
  
Okay. That works for me. Let us never speak of this again, and go back to exactly the way things were before –  
  
Actually, no. That doesn’t work for me at all.  
  
I bite my lip.  
  
Chakotay takes another step toward me. “I brought you something,” he says, holding out the package. It’s small, wrapped in brown paper.  
  
“What is it?” I ask suspiciously. It had better not be his rank bar – oh, he’s wearing it.  
  
“Open it.”  
  
Gingerly I take the small parcel and pull the paper off. Inside is a plastic pouch filled with –  
  
“Chocolate-covered coffee beans?” My eyes go wide.  
  
“Well, technically, they’re coca-covered kaffa beans,” he says, and now he’s smiling. “I thought you could probably use a little cheering up.”  
  
I blush, staring at my feet. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”  
  
“It’s my pleasure,” he says, “Kathryn.”  
  
Oh, it’s _Kathryn_ now. A knot loosens in my chest. At least he seems willing to still be friends.  
  
“Besides,” he says, moving closer, “I thought you’d appreciate this more than a bottle of ginka.”  
  
“Oh God, don’t ever mention that word in my presence again,” I groan, daring to peek up at him.  
  
“Actually,” he’s smiling wider, “it wasn’t all bad. You were a lot of fun.”  
  
“I was?” I think about that, then frown. “ _Fun_ is something I haven’t been called in a while.”  
  
“You’re always fun, Kathryn. But it was very refreshing to see you cut loose for a change.” He grins. “I didn’t mind the outfit, either.”  
  
“Oh, really?” I glance up at him from under my lashes.  
  
“Really.” He’s standing very close now. “In fact, you were sexy as hell.”  
  
He reaches out to brush the backs of his fingers against my cheek and my body starts to hum. I chew on my lower lip, unsure of how to respond.  
  
Chakotay lets his hand drop and takes a half-step back. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “That was inappropriate.”  
  
Of its own accord, my hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. “No it wasn’t,” I blurt.  
  
He looks at my hand, then up at my face. “It wasn’t?”  
  
“You said I wouldn’t respect myself in the morning.” The words are tumbling out of my mouth. “And I can understand why you said that, given the way I’ve treated you every other time we’ve ended up, well, you know. I’m the one who’s behaved inappropriately, Chakotay.”  
  
He frowns.  
  
“No, not because of that. I mean, sure, I’m breaking about six different protocols just during the course of this conversation, let alone all those times we’ve jumped into bed together. But where I’ve really gone wrong is in shutting you out, all those morning-afters. Refusing to talk about us like a rational human being was inappropriate. Treating you like a booty call was inappropriate.”  
  
“Booty call?” He raises his eyebrows.  
  
I wave a hand. “Something I picked up from Tom Paris.” Now I’m the one moving closer, and I give into my impulse to rest my hand on his chest. “The thing is, no matter how stern a talking-to I gave myself every time I threw protocol out the window with you, I kept coming back. And I think there has to be a reason for that.”  
  
Chakotay’s smile turns dirty. “You mean it’s not just because of that thing I do with my –”  
  
“Okay, it’s partly that,” I interrupt him, matching his smirk with one of my own. “But mostly it’s because I love you.”  
  
His smile could light a black hole. “You do?”  
  
“Of course I do.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “And not only because you bring me coffee.”  
  
Whatever reply he’s intending to make, I cut him off by tip-toeing up to press my lips to his.  
  
“I guess you already know this,” he says a little breathlessly when we finally move apart, “but I love you too.”  
  
“I had a feeling.” I ruffle his hair over his forehead and grin. “There, that’s better.”  
  
His hands are moving now, over my capacious bathrobe, trying to find a way in. “How do I get you out of this thing?”  
  
“You proved you’re no slouch at unwrapping me last night,” I smirk up at him, placing the end of the sash in his hand. “You figure it out.”  
  
He tugs, and the robe drops to the floor as I spin away from him toward the bedroom, laughing.


End file.
